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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29031294">vindicta</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekphilosophress/pseuds/greekphilosophress'>greekphilosophress</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>in which jeyne gets to revenge herself upon ramsay [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, but in a good way, i love you jeyne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:14:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,265</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29031294</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekphilosophress/pseuds/greekphilosophress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>jeyne poole is not afraid of death, anymore. but she's angry.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>(not in a good way i swear), Ramsay Bolton/Death, Ramsay Bolton/Jeyne Poole</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>in which jeyne gets to revenge herself upon ramsay [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2286668</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>vindicta</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for clarification, this takes place in a canon divergent au where the whole plot to get jeyne out of winterfell doesn't exist!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jeyne Poole was dead. The little girl who had stolen pies with Sansa and cried when Ser Hugh was killed at a tourney, who had made up names to call Arya and fawned over Beric Dondarrion was earth and ashes, blown to a million pieces on soft fingers of wind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She didn’t know who she was, now. They all said she was Arya Stark, who once upon a time she had called ‘Horseface’, giggling in conspiracy with Sansa. She wasn’t Arya Stark. Her eyes were the wrong color, and she was too old. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ramsay didn’t care.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If the child who had fancied Lord Dondarrion could see her next to her husband now, she would be horrified. Lord Ramsay Bolton was fat and spotted, with wet, thick lips and greasy hair. Jeyne had thought she knew pain in the brothel, where her </span>
  <em>
    <span>training</span>
  </em>
  <span> had taken place. The men with signet rings that caught on her lip and their hands that always, </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> pulled at her hair in the worst way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was a fool.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ramsay never slept in her bed the whole night. He would have his way, roll over and doze off, and she would be stuck with the oppressive heat of him until he woke and left to go wherever he would. She couldn’t ease the covers off of her body, lest he wake and decide he wasn’t done with her, after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So she was enrobed in the sweaty cocoon, praying that he would just </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave - </span>
  </em>
  <span>please</span>
  <em>
    <span> let him leave - </span>
  </em>
  <span>his mass a fact beside her. She always tried not to cry. Ramsay hated crying, but she was so, so bad at holding back the tears, and she tried, she really did.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Winterfell was a ghost. Maybe not a ghost, she mused, trying to distract herself for as long as it took, but a place ghosts live. It wasn’t a heaven, though it certainly could be a hell. If this Winterfell was a hell, she was a ghost. Theon was a ghost too, she supposed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wasn’t ready to see what had become of Theon. She didn’t want to think about it, either. She had hoped that he would save her, once. But she could see now that Ramsay had turned him inside out and scraped out all of the parts that made him his own. She didn’t hate him. She didn’t really hate anyone, except for Ramsay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For anything else, all she felt was a desperately sad numbness, an aching nothing burning a cold hole right through her. But with Ramsay, when he touched her or commanded her to do unspeakable things with other, more unspeakable things, she felt like her hands were white hot, flame catching at the ends of her hair and creeping out from her eyes until she was wreathed in fire, weeping heat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She could burn Ramsay, then. She could take a torch to the brittle bones of Winterfell and watch it all burn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ramsay slept beside her. He was snoring, which was unusual, and he stank of wine. He was drunk, that was it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had been particularly rough earlier, finger-painting her body in purple. She raised a hand carefully, oh so carefully, to prod at her swollen bottom lip, and she felt a wetness smear. Her mouth tasted like metal, and her head was pounding. She risked a glance over at her husband. He was completely dead to the world, ugly head thrown back, a thin line of drool dripping down his bumpy jowl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tested the waters by pushing herself up on her elbows, one miniscule movement at a time. He didn’t stir at all, so she moved further, slipping onto the floor and crouching down by the bed. The ground was warm, which presented her with a distant memory, something about hot water in the walls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jeyne didn’t quite know what she was planning to do, the only thing she could think was </span>
  <em>
    <span>away.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She silently crept across the room to the window, peeking out. Snow draped heavily on the castle walls, laying down a pure white blanket, hiding the blood-soaked memories embalmed between blocks of stone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turned her head and saw a fruit bowl on the wooden table set up with a chair on it’s side next to it. Earlier, in his haste to tear into her, Ramsay had overturned it, slamming her back against the table. She still felt the pain breathing down her spine, digging into her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Laying besides the bowl, there was a knife. A small thing, made for coring apples and the like. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before she could register her own actions, her bare feet padded across the floor, and she had the blade in her grip. She glanced over at Ramsay, still asleep, and then down at her hands. They were shaking, she saw.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With quick, quiet, determined steps, she crossed over to the window once more, grabbing the pulled back curtain and deftly sawing off the golden, tasseled cord that hung off of it. She reached for the other one and did the same, so she held two ropes. She knew what she was doing, though she had never done anything of the kind before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Taking the knife again, she cut out a decent portion of the rich, heavy cloth that made up one of the drapes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jeyne picked up the chair on the ground and shoved it up under the door handle, shimmied it a bit, made sure it was secure. She kept holding the rope, knife, and the bit of curtain, and took herself over to the bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ramsay laying there suddenly looked so fragile, weak and breakable. She wanted to break him so </span>
  <em>
    <span>badly. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She took one of the cords, looped it about his feet, and tied it firmly to a bedpost. She did the same to his wrists, and when they were in place, she put the gag in his mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyelids were starting to flutter. She took a deep breath, steadying her resolve.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jeyne Poole was not afraid to die. She was afraid of what would happen to her if this man lived. She had unlocked something deep within her, that creature made of fire and tears of steam. She closed her eyes and welcomed her. She imagined embracing the wraith with open arms, like a sister. She smiled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hand came down hard on Ramsay’s cheek, slapping his head around sideways. His eyes opened all the way now, looking up at her in confusion, then anger. His mouth was working the gag, trying to speak, but all that came out was a muffled gargle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looked down at the knife in her hand, then back at him. Understanding dawned on him, and he started making louder and louder sounds. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She spoke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My name is Jeyne Poole. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am my own.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The knife was an extension of her, like she had grown claws, some wild thing clawing its way out of her, bringing a storm of fangs and fur. She knew how hot blood was, had learned far too young, and when it gushed over her knuckles, soaking into her shift, outlining her in red, she did not flinch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The knife handle grew too slippery to hold, so she let it be and stood back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Death, as a rule, is not pretty. But his was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She wiped her hands on the bedclothes, and looked out of the window.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knew that come morning, she would be dead. She couldn’t bring herself to distress. Jeyne Poole was alive, for now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she was not crying.</span>
</p>
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